


Pride

by starstruck1986



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-08
Updated: 2015-01-08
Packaged: 2018-03-06 17:57:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3143432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starstruck1986/pseuds/starstruck1986
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Deep down, Harry always needed Ron to understand what it was like to live without a parent. Now he wishes he could do anything to take that pain away.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pride

**Author's Note:**

  * For [roelliej](https://archiveofourown.org/users/roelliej/gifts).



**Warnings (Highlight to view)** :*Language, minor character death, bereavement.*

 

 **Pride**  
  
  
“How is he?”  
  
Harry thought about how to answer that question. Ron was withdrawn, beyond quiet for his usual state and there were some new lines on his face which Harry hoped he'd not noticed.  
  
“He's...” Words failed to come and he shrugged to convey that.  
“I know.”  
“It's the first time I've never wanted him to know what it feels like.”  
  
Concern flickered in Hermione's eyes.  
  
“No. I don't mean it like that.” Harry shook his head. “I just... there were times when he was so bloody privileged and I wanted him to know how lucky he was. To have her. And now all I want is for him to have her back, because he's so fucking sad... and I want nothing more than for him to have his mum back. That's fucked up.”  
“It's not,” Hermione said. She leaned against him. “It's just... you wanted him to know what he had when he had it.”  
  
Harry nodded silently in agreement and put his arm around her shoulders.  
  
“It's so sad, isn't it?” Hermione said, her voice thick with emotion.  
“It is.”  
“And they're all so heartbroken. And Arthur...”  
  
Finding his eyes flooded with tears, Harry didn't look at the Weasley patriarch who been like a father to him throughout his teenage years. He tried to avoid thinking of Arthur like that, given that it would cast serious doubt on his relationship with Ron.  
  
“How many is that?” Hermione asked, as they both watched Ron tip back the last of another glass of Firewhisky.  
“Too many. Home time.”  
“Be good to one another,” said Hermione, kissing him on the cheek. “And Merry Christmas, Harry.”  
  
She squeezed his hand. They'd spent an equally depressing Christmas Eve together years before. It was something Harry wasn't sure he'd ever properly expressed his gratitude for. The first time he'd seen his parents' graves had turned his stomach over and Hermione had been there to guide him through it with a calm voice and a steady hand.  
  
The urge to protect and comfort reared in him and it was with purpose that he strode to Ron's side and held out his hand. Ron looked up at him with bloodshot eyes.  
  
“Let's go home,” Harry said. “You've had enough to drink and I think you need to go to sleep.”  
  
Sleep recharged Ron like nothing else. Sleep was the cure-all for everything that could ever be wrong with Ron Weasley, except, so far, for grief.  
  
Ron allowed himself to be pulled out of the chair and wobbled on his feet. Harry steadied him with splayed hands and a small grin. He'd never been able to resist Ron when he was drunk.  
  
***  
  
“Ron...” Harry muttered against Ron's lips and managed to get his hands on the redhead's shoulders.  
“Why aren't you naked?”  
  
Ron was everywhere – his hands, his body, his breath; it was taking everything Harry had not to just screw it all and give in to what Ron clearly wanted. The scent of his sweat and aftershave was too much, high in the hot air of their bedroom.  
  
As Ron's tongue tickled the roof of his mouth, Harry knew he had to stop it. They'd had their share of grief sex, but something was telling him that if he let it go ahead on that night in particular, everything would go wrong.  
  
“No!” he cried out, finally managing to get some leverage, and pushed Ron backwards.  
  
He stumbled over his own drunken feet and landed on his backside. His face was mildly hilarious with gaping eyes and an open mouth.  
  
“Come on...” Harry sighed. “You need to go to bed.”  
“You pushed me!”  
  
Harry hefted him up with one hand, staggering under the tiredness which had set into his bones. Ron careened towards the bed and fell face-first into the duvet with a groan. Harry bent and eased the size fourteen trainers off his partner's feet. He left them on the floor at the foot of the bed and, without getting undressed, kicked his own shoes off and crawled onto the mattress. Ron muttered something inaudible beside him but didn't bother to reiterate. Harry reached out and put his fingers into Ron's red hair, allowing his fingertips to massage against his scalp.  
  
Another moan permitted him to continue, which Harry did. He closed his eyes with only a little thought for the fact that he still had his glasses on.  
  
“Harry...” The Firewhisky on Ron's breath was strong. “Can you...”  
“What?” The word was slurred with sleep, which seemed content to take him as soon as possible.  
“Hold me?”  
  
He could have cried at the way Ron's request wobbled in delivery and how horribly vulnerable it made the six foot four redhead sound. He knew Ron to be brave even in the face of his biggest fears. Ron had protected him, taken hits for him, put his life on the line for him. Though they never talked about it, Harry knew he was indebted to Ron. Under the weight of Ron's expressed vulnerability, he felt useless. What could he really do to make Ron feel better? What could he say that would lessen the pain of his loss?  
  
He wrapped his arms around Ron who cuddled into his chest. He stroked a hand up Ron's back and buried his fingers again at the nape of his neck. Ron sniffed against him.  
  
“What can I do?” Harry whispered through the darkness. “How can I make this better, Ron?”  
  
There was no answer except several hard sniffs and the tightening of Ron's grip on his body. Harry sighed and pressed a kiss to Ron's forehead.  
  
“I love you,” he murmured.  
  
***  
  
Harry stretched out, expecting to be cold and stiff, but instead found himself cocooned in the soft luxury of their duvet, his bare skin against the high thread count sheets. Confused, he opened his eyes and tried to focus. He'd gone to sleep with his glasses on, he was sure of it. He groped around for them next to the bed and clumsily slid them onto his face. He looked to the side and saw that the bed was otherwise empty. He stroked his hand across the mattress and found that it was cool to the touch – wherever Ron was, he'd been gone for some time.  
  
It took a moment for that realisation to sink in, but when it did Harry sat bolt upright and struggled to get out of the bed quick enough. He unhooked his dressing gown from the back of the door and made his way out onto the landing. He was halfway down the first set of stairs before he smelt something delicious wafting up towards him. And then there was something else, with each step nearer that he took. Something which he was very rarely treated to was coming from the living room – the sound of Ron singing. It was some doctored Christmas carol which Harry had learnt a Muggle version of as a child.  
  
He paused outside the living room door, even though his feet were freezing on the old hallway parquet. Ron was still singing and presumably hadn't heart his approach. Harry stood listening, grinning to himself, until he couldn't wait any longer. He knocked on the door as he crossed the threshold.  
  
“Only me,” he announced, and Ron jumped. “Wow. Did you do this?”  
  
Harry gestured to the Christmas tree which hadn't been there the evening before. It was twinkling beautifully.  
  
“Yeah,” Ron said shyly. “D'you like it?”  
“It's great!” Harry exclaimed, unable to keep the smile from his face. Christmas had been a time of contentment for him since the first time he'd had one away from the Dursleys as an eleven-year-old.  
  
With Molly's death, however, it hadn't seemed right to try and force festivity on the house. He'd been frightened to raise it with Ron. It seemed that the redhead had got there on his own.  
  
“What's brought all this on?” he asked finally, throwing himself down on a sofa and putting his frozen feet up on the coffee table. “How long have you been up?”  
“A few hours.” Ron shrugged dismissively but the skin under his eyes was lilac in colour. “And there's breakfast keeping warm in the kitchen and a turkey in the oven for later.”  
“Where the fuck did you get a turkey at that hour?” Harry frowned.  
“I bought it a few days ago.”  
“But you've-”  
“Had my head up my arse for weeks, I know.”  
  
Harry blushed and looked down at his lap. “I wasn't going to say that.”  
“Well, you should have.” Ron idly tweaked a decoration on the tree, making it spin and sparkle. Flickers of light danced on the walls. “It's true. And I s'pose I've been trying to figure out a way to move on. Cooking a turkey to her specification and decorating the tree to her rules seemed like a good start.”  
“She'd be proud. And she would have _loved_ to have heard you singing just now.”  
  
Ron let out an embarrassed groan and the tips of his ears went red. Despite that, Harry saw a small grin. His heart soared.  
  
“She'd be proud of you for a lot of reasons,” Harry went on, staring at the tree in almost a trance. “She loved you so much.”  
“She loved us all,” Ron said soberly, finally coming to sit at Harry's side.  
  
Harry switched his gaze to their hands as Ron joined them together on his thigh.  
  
“I love you,” Ron said, his voice full of such raw earnestness that it made Harry's throat burn. “And I know the last few weeks have been awful and I've been awful to be around-”  
“No you haven't,” Harry argued.  
“I couldn't have got through this without you.”  
  
Humbled, Harry nodded and looked at his lap.  
  
Ron raised their hands to his mouth and kissed the back of Harry's. “Thank you.”  
“I know.”  
“I know you know, but still...”  
  
He nodded meekly again, desperately thinking of something meaningful to say. He stared around the parlour room of the old Black family house and wondered if he should even try to find something – surely it would all be trite and cringeworthy?  
  
His eyes then alighted on a framed picture of Sirius standing on the sideboard, and he knew what he had to say.  
  
“The ones that love us never really leave us, Ron.” He licked his bottom lip. “And your mum's no exception. In fact, she's probably watching over us right now, commenting how bad it is that neither of us have wished each other 'Merry Christmas' yet.”  
  
Ron chuckled, making a husky little sound which made Harry's heart soar again. He'd not heard it since the day of Molly's death.  
  
“You're right.”  
“I hope I am.” Harry gave Ron's hand a squeeze.  
“And... I've messaged everyone. I've told them all to come here for Christmas dinner.”  
“Did you get a big enough turkey? Can you cook for that many people?”  
“I can if you help me. And hey, if I fuck it up, we'll find food somewhere, eh?”  
“Are you sure about this? It's a lot of stress and I don't want you to...” he trailed off, not wanting to finish that sentence.  
“I'm sure.” Ron's smile, though nervous, was genuine.  
  
“Let's get started then. I'm an excellent potato peeler.”  
“Good, because I fucking hate that, and I wouldn't want mum to get her own way in making me do it for another year.”  
  
Harry snorted to himself then.  
  
“I'm really proud of you,” he said softly, as Ron made to get up.  
“Why?”  
“I just am. I'm always proud of you, but today I'm especially proud of you.” Harry shrugged. “For being as strong as I've always known you were. And your mum knew it, too.”  
“Stop it, you're going to set me off,” Ron warned, his eyes suddenly becoming glassy.  
  
Harry sighed and wondered if Ron would ever accept praise from him.  
  
“C'mon. Let's have breakfast, drink some alcohol and get cracking on this dinner, then. When's everyone coming round?”  
“Three.”  
  
Harry made for the door, thinking first of all about a thick pair of socks and then a metric fuckton of bacon, but Ron grabbed his wrist on the way past and pulled him in close.  
  
“I love you, Harry.”  
  
 _-fin-_


End file.
